A dozen times it occurred to her that her mother was playing games with them, that perhaps she intended to keep them here all day. A few times she was on the brink of getting to her feet and suggesting that they go back home. Each time she returned to her focus.

Alexander did not say a word, bless his heart, though his fingertips sometimes stroked lightly instead of remaining motionless on her wrist.

And then the door opened and five people came into the room—the younger of the two ladies who had occupied the theater box opposite their own, whom Wren now knew to be Blanche; the man who had been with her there, presumably her husband; two very young gentlemen, who were handsome almost to the point of prettiness; and … her mother.

Alexander got to his feet and bowed stiffly. Wren remained seated and looked at each of the three principal figures in turn. Blanche had not changed much except that she looked her age. She was tall, slim, blond, and very good looking. Her husband was also a handsome man, though he had the florid, slightly puffy complexion of someone who had been drinking too much for too many years. Her mother … Well, she had the slender figure of a girl, though there was evidence of stays tightly laced. Her white muslin dress was fussy with frills and flounces, with long, gauzy sleeves and lacy frills that covered her hands to the tips of her fingers. Rings glittered and gleamed on those fingers with their long, painted nails. A lacy white stole was draped artfully to cover her bosom and neck. Her hair was blond and youthful and artfully dressed high on her head with curls feathering over her neck and temples. It was without a doubt a wig. Her complexion was delicately pale, her eyes wide and guileless and fringed with long lashes a few shades darker than her hair and as artificial as it was. Her lips were plump and pink.

In the dim rose-hued light of the room she looked young and delicate and beautiful and so unreal that … Ah, yes. Jessica’s word sprang to mind. She looked grotesque. A woman who must have been in her mid-to late fifties ought not to look like a girl newly stepping out into the world of the ton.

The whole performance was extraordinary. Not a word was spoken as the five moved across the room and the two pretty gentlemen offered a hand each to assist Lady Hodges to mount her throne before one of them picked up a rose pink feathered fan from a table beside her and handed it to the other, who wafted it before her face. Sir Nelson Elwood meanwhile was seating Blanche in one of the more lowly chairs.

“Lord and Lady Riverdale,” Lady Hodges said in a sweet girl’s voice, which immediately sent shivers of memory down Wren’s spine, “I understand congratulations are in order. Young love is always a pleasure to look upon.”

Alexander had sat down again.

“Thank you, Mother,” Wren said.

The lady gestured elegantly and the man holding the fan lowered it to his side. “Ah,” she said, “so you are Rowena. Your looks have improved a little. It is a good thing, however, that you were left a fortune. I wish you happy in your marriage.”

“Thank you,” Wren said again.

“And what may I do for you,” her mother asked, “apart from wishing you well?”

“Nothing,” Wren said. “And even your good wishes are unnecessary. I came because I needed to come, because I needed to look upon you once more as an adult who has learned self-worth. I needed to confront the darkness of a childhood no child should ever have to endure, with no hint of love from anyone except my younger brother, with whom I was reunited yesterday, to great joy on both sides. Your cruelty to him in telling him I had died was only surpassed by your prolonged cruelty to a child who, through no fault of her own, was born with a facial blemish. I wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that you have missed so much joy you might have had in your life by putting your trust in self-worship and in physical beauty, which never lasts, at least not in its youthful blooming. You have ignored all the love and comfort you might have enjoyed with your family and others. All I ever wanted was to love and to be loved. I do not hate you. I have suffered enough and will probably never be quite free of the effects of what happened to me. I will not add hatred to that burden, which I will determinedly work toward dissipating for the rest of my life. I feel sorrow instead, for perhaps you cannot help your character any more than I can help the birthmark on my face.”

Alexander’s fingertips were on her wrist again.

“My dear Rowena.” Her mother had taken the feathers in her own hand and was fanning her face again. “I kept you and cared for you for ten long years when you were hideous to look upon and everyone begged me to send you somewhere where only those well paid to do so would have to look at you. It is trial enough to look at you now—I feel for Lord Riverdale—but perhaps you do not remember how you looked then. Megan made a martyr of herself by taking you in, it seems, and persuaded that old man, doubtless still grief-stricken after the death of his wife, to marry her and take on the burden of you. I assume she is dead now? Poor Megan. But you are rich and have been able to purchase a husband and even a title. I congratulate you again. You should be thanking me, not heaping recriminations upon my head. Mr. Wragley, my vinaigrette, if you please.”

One of the young men picked it up from the table and handed it to her.

“Blanche,” Wren said, moving her attention to her sister, “I never knew you well. I was never given the chance. I would be happy to get to know you as a sister if you would like.”

Blanche looked at her with cool disdain. “No, thank you,” she said, and her husband, who had not been introduced, set a hand on her shoulder.

Wren got to her feet. “That is all,” she said. “I shall not trouble you again, Mother. And I shall not deliberately expose your ugly secret, though I daresay it will soon be known that I am Lord Hodges’s sister. Colin and I loved each other dearly as children. We will love each other again now and on into the future.”

Alexander was on his feet beside her and spoke now for the first time in more than an hour. “I thank you for receiving us, ma’am,” he said. “It was important to my wife to see you and speak with you again. She will be happier now, I believe. And her happiness is important to me. Of greater importance than anything else in my life, in fact. I certainly did not marry her for her money. I love her, you see.” With that, he turned and offered his arm to his wife. “Wren?”

He escorted her from the room and down the stairs to the hall. A footman held the door open for them. They would no doubt have stepped out of the house without speaking again if someone had not called Wren’s name. They turned. Both young men were hurrying down after them. They did not speak again until they were down in the hall too.

“You have upset Lady Hodges,” one of them said.

“Ugliness upsets her,” the other explained.

“And when she is upset, then we are upset,” the first man said.

It was the second man’s turn. “It is our express wish,” he said, “that you stay away from her in the future.”

“We and her other devoted friends always see to it that her wishes are granted,” the first young man said. “And it would be in your own interest, Lady Riverdale, to keep silent about your relationship to—”

He did not have a chance to finish. The other young man did not have a chance to chime in with his next remark. It all happened so quickly that Wren had no time even to blink. First the current speaker was grabbed by the neckcloth and then the other, and both were walked backward until there was no farther to go. They were hoisted upward, their backs to the wall, their elegantly booted feet only just scraping the tiled floor, their faces turning an identical shade of blue.